Singing Into the Wind
by JastaElf
Summary: As young Estel prepares to go out into the world to accept his destiny, a fond heart left behind at home pines for what might have been... Mild slashy content, Lindir & much musical metaphor... Just a content edit!


**Singing Into the Wind**

by

JastaElf

**Pairing: **Lindir/Aragorn

**Slash: **Oh My Yes!

**Rating: **a gentle R

**Disclaimer:** Yes, yes, we all know Tolkien is whirling in his crypt, thank you for sharing… hey, the man needs the exercise after all these years! No harm intended; these are not the droids you're looking for… no infringement of copyright is intended or even slightly hinted at. All rights remain where they're supposed to be, this is fanfic, doggone it, and JRR himself said it was all right! g

Dedicated to the wonderful, brilliant, and utterly adorable Ellen Robey, who has given me SO many hours of fantastic reading and drooling…. And who has been kind enough to be my friend! Part of the Valentine's Day fic swap at Royal Mirkwood Home for Wayward Elves…. Happy Valentine's Day, y'all!

"I love but one, and him I love, change never;  
If men have faith, I'll live with thee for ever.  
The years that fatal destiny shall give  
I'll live with thee, and die, ere thou shalt grieve.  
Be thou the happy subject of my books,  
That I may write things worthy thy fair looks."

(With apologies to Ovid AND Christopher Marlowe,

for changing their otherwise deathless pronouns….)

It was a factor of Elven thought processes that something either took the twinkling of an eye to decide, or took half of forever—everything rather depended on the proclivities of the Elf involved. For instance, it had taken certain of the Noldor as much as several generations of Humankind to make up their minds about things… while rather often, the Wood-Elves decided on the turn of a card whether they would be fell or gay, merry or devastated. It all depended on how one chose to react.

For Lindir, chief minstrel of Imladris and one of the finest poets in Ennor in this day and age—in the midst of the Third Age, as it happened—it could go either way, for his ancestry was somewhat checquered. A less kind soul might call him a bit of a mutt, for he had a Noldor father who was part Sindar and a Vanyar mother who was part Telerin—and his poetic muse often led him off into flights of fancy that would have done any Silvan proud. All things being considered as equal, therefore, it should have surprised no one that he sat down to think one fine winter's evening—and was still at it a day later.

But at least he was fretting over it, and singing as he thought—so he could not have been said to be resting on his laurels, as it were.

All around him the household of Lord Elrond Peredhel was at eights and twelves, as there was a feast in the offing. In and of itself this was hardly unusual. Feasts happened all the time in Imladris, marvelous things really, with superb foods and wonderful company, all to the tune of exquisite music, and all of that under the control of Lindir himself. But for once, the happy chaos of the planning, practicing and preparing went right on past, over, around, and probably under Lindir as well, without his busy involvement. Sooner or later someone was bound to notice.

He sat in the big window seat that overlooked the main flood of the Bruinen, the fabled watercourse that ran through Lord Elrond's domain as both a source of refreshment and a protective barrier. The view was exquisite, both inside and out; the Vale of Imladris was a gorgeous place, deeply cut into granite and limestone bedrock as it was, full of waterfalls, hollows, glades, glens and the like, and all kept safe by the vicissitudes of Vilya, the Elven Ring of Air carried by Elrond himself. Yet inside the view was rather lovely as well, for Lindir was an ornament to the valley, little though he would himself have credited it, being a modest sort. Sitting there, he was poetry in motion (or lack thereof, for his thoughts were deep and his movement simply too infrequent to track), as many remarked in one way or another as they passed by. His pale gold hair, well-intermingled with silver, had been left to trail unfettered down his back and across his shoulders; neither braid nor circlet held it in check. His face, beautiful in repose, was the image of grace and charm; his eyes, grey and shining like stars, were as lovely as a summer sky at Minuial. He had a talent for dressing with a casual, unaffected style all his own, a kind of artistic, lyrical quality infusing what would have somehow seemed perfectly commonplace on another; the previous day he had chosen a loose shirt of creamy white, a pair of wide-legged trews of copper-shot blue silk set with many slender pleats so that the fabric both clung and flowed about his well-made legs, and a comfortable over-robe of a deep blue velvet that shimmered as the sunlight, then the moonlight, then the sun again moved over him, and so he continued to sit there, contemplating.

"Whatever is his problem _this_ time?" Master Erestor demanded, pausing in one of his many perambulations to and fro on various errands for Elrond, some having to do with Council business, others having to do with party planning. The person to whom he directed this query—Lord Glorfindel of Gondolin, seneschal of Imladris and its chief captain—looked up from checking the accuracy of a large crate of items sent up from the storage areas of the Last Homely House.

"Whose problem? What time?" he demanded with some asperity. He was an Elf of action, after all, and relished an utter distaste for bureaucracy and the minutiae of running a household. Had he been asked, he would have said that was what Staff was for… fortunately he had a very fine staff indeed, on many levels, and was usually therefore the soul of equanimity. Today, however, he was decidedly grumpy.

"Lindir," Erestor grumbled in reply, tipping his chin toward the silent, mostly-motionless minstrel, as his own hands were full with a sizeable stack of heavy books he was fetching from the library for Elrond. "He has been sitting there for at least a full day now, pondering Eru knows what! I would know what his problem can possibly be this time!"

"What it _is_, Erestor my friend, is none of your business," Glorfindel informed him tartly, though he did glance Lindir's way with some concern. The last time this had happened the result had been an exquisite, superbly crafted lay in many verses on the subject of death and the passing of years, set to music that had been extremely evocative of the subject matter—and all composed to commemorate the abrupt and bloody departure of some King in the line of Elros. Glorfindel remembered it as having been extremely accurate in terms of description of battle and maiming, and while quite wonderful, it had been rather hard on one's posterior—as the proper performance of the thing had consumed several hours, during which one was encouraged to pay silent attention, save for reacting properly in all the right places. He hoped desperately this was not going to prove the gestation period for a similar work of art, for Glorfindel was not fond of his arse falling asleep in public as it had upon that long-gone night.

"Besides—I am certain that by now, if he really has been sitting there for two days and more, his biggest problem is a crying need to piss," the captain exclaimed drolly, and went back to ticking things off on his list. Erestor huffed in annoyance and made himself scarce against the chance Glorfindel might take it into his head to ask Lindir if he did indeed need to, umm, relieve himself, and (being Glorfindel) doing so at the top of his lungs.

"Crying need to piss indeed," Erestor grumbled under his breath as he retreated hurriedly. "How can one have to relieve oneself if one has taken neither food nor drink? A nicety lost utterly on that dear Gondolinian clod if there ever was one, of course…."

Lindir, of course, ignored the whole thing—for he was in love, desperate, admiring love, and the object of his love was about to depart for places and climes unknown. The feast was being held for that very reason—a last gasp, for a while, for a beloved member of the household—and while everyone was a little nostalgic over it all, Lindir was positively devastated. Stuck as he was between a desire and duty to commemorate this event with an appropriate musical piece, and a wish to crawl off under a rock and weep his eyes out, the poor beset minstrel had literally worked himself into a state where none of it seemed likely to happen—because he would apparently take root there and never be heard from again, merely remarked upon as an oddity of the House like the other statuary about the place.

Museless and miserable, Lindir heard everything that was discussed around him—and could not bring himself to comment on any of it. This alone ought to have been sufficient to raise alarm flags everywhere, had only there been less going on to mask the sorrow.

"Lindir? Is everything well with you?"

The bemused minstrel looked up slowly into a pair of starlit grey eyes in a young face. Lindir stared, his mouth open slightly—for this was Estel, Human foster-son of Lord Elrond, the object of the celebration to come—and of Lindir's affections, though he would rather have died than admit it. _As if the weight of his heritage is not enough!_ Lindir thought, mortified, and closed his mouth with a snap. _The last thing he needs is the additional burden of my inability to control myself!_

He shook himself and managed a weak smile. With Estel were Elladan and Elrohir, the twin sons of the Lord of the House; three pairs of very similar eyes gazed at the musician, not convinced in the least when Lindir hastened to reassure them:

"Oh aye, all is well—I am—thinking!" he babbled, blinking a bit and realizing too late that he had a cramp in his leg from sitting still so long. "Truly all is well—I was, umm, thinking about music and all for the feast!"

"For two days?" Elladan asked skeptically. Lindir blushed to his ear-tips.

"It's—umm—a long passage of music?" he hedged. The Twins gave very similar sounds of pure disbelief, and Elrohir made a grab for the minstrel's arm.

"You need to come with us and have a breath of fresh air," he commanded. "You've been here so long we've been collecting wagers on whether or not you'll take root!"

"You haven't done any such thing!" Lindir protested, just as his cramped leg gave out on him. He stumbled, nearly falling—only to be caught by the young Ranger-to-be, who moved with almost Elven haste to prevent the tumble. Lindir clutched convulsively at the lad's arm and (if such were possible!) blushed even more deeply, especially when Estel did not immediately let him go. The Human held onto him for a heartbeat or twelve, gazing worriedly into the minstrel's eyes; for once it was the Elf who looked away first. "I—do apologize," he murmured, horribly embarrassed to realize he had become rather thoroughly aroused by the mere touch of the lad's hands. _Gods be thanked for robes!_

"No need," Estel said kindly, pretending to dust Lindir off—which only made matters worse. The Twins found Lindir's stumbles and protests amusing, and made no bones about saying so.

"When you are so caught up in music that your limbs fail you, it is time for intervention," Elladan announced, his brother of course concurring. "Come! We're going for a walk, the three of us—and you need to join in!"

"Umm—I—no, I couldn't possibly," Lindir stammered. "I have so much time, so little to do—err, I mean much to do, so little time—I—have to get ready—write the music—practice—"

The ribbing brought on by this confused declaration threatened, as things sometimes did with the Twins, to escalate into far more than it needed to be—until a curious thing happened. Estel suddenly cleared his throat and spoke up:

"Leave him be, you two. Will you come between a master and his music? For shame! Enough—off with you both. Just—start walking."

He never raised his voice, nor did he speak harshly—in fact he was the soul of courtesy. But both of his foster-brothers fell silent, surprised, and glanced at one another in amazement. Then, probably as much to their own astonishment as anyone else's—they agreed.

"We're sorry, Lindir—no harm meant!" Elrohir apologized shame-facedly. Elladan nodded.

"Yes, of course—sorry about that! We—just got carried away." They glanced at one another again, their expressions shading toward regret—then with more murmured apologies, they left the house. As he passed, Elrohir gave Estel a comradely poke to the shoulder with a gentle fist, as if surprised to realize his baby brother had become a Man….

The silence left in their wake was deafening. Estel stared first at the floor, then at Lindir—realizing he still had his hand on the other's arm. He took that hand away, cheeks pink. "Sorry!"

Lindir tried to respond, but found himself voiceless. Estel tilted his head in a rather Elvish kind of way, then gave a nervous shrug. "Umm—I won't bother you further," he mumbled, sticking his hands in his pockets. "See you tomorrow at the feast!"

He started to walk away, but was stopped by a hand on his own arm. Looking up, he discovered that Lindir was smiling softly.

"It is all right, Estel," the minstrel said kindly. "Brothers are like that. You did well to halt them so—and I think they were taken aback, for it seems but yesterday you were but a little tot following in their shadows like a puppy. Now you are a Man, aware of your destiny and about to go take your try at the world—and they are just as confused as the rest of us. It will pass."

"Will it?" The self-assured young Man gave way to a moment of hesitation and self-doubt—more than likely the first of many he would have to endure in the years to come. Estel sighed. "I feel so strange. I too feel as if it was all but yesterday—and yet—"

Unable to bear the confusion and pain in those beloved eyes, Lindir sat down once more and patted the window seat beside him. "Will you confide in me, Estel? What is it that troubles you?"

The youth sat gingerly on the edge of the cushion. "I have come to realize in the last few days just how comparatively little I know of the world," he murmured, staring down at his feet, quite suddenly unable to look at the beautiful Elf beside him. "I have been sheltered here, cherished, loved—yea, even though I am a little angry at Adar for not telling me sooner about this weighty heritage of which you speak, I understand his reasons. But—I am not certain I can handle it all!"

He looked up, his eyes suddenly much older than they had been only a couple of days before. "I must now become accustomed to being called Aragorn—that is a King's name! And I am no King!" he protested.

Lindir smiled again and shook his head slowly. "Who among us is ever ready for destiny?" he asked. "Your Human ancestors had destiny thrust upon them, some at far younger than your current years—others far older. And your Elven ancestors—well, you have but to look at Lord Elrond, to see what can come of destiny reaching out to tap one of tender years! He was the merest babe when the sons of Fëanor came to sack Sirion and seize the Silmaril!"

He realized there was possibility in that alliterative line: _sons, sack Sirion, seize Silmaril…_ and was already contemplating musical possibilities when a heavy sigh from the young Human called him back to the conversation.

"What about you, Lindir? What of your family?" Estel asked. "What destiny was thrust upon you?"

Lindir blinked, a little surprised. No one had asked him a question like that in a very long time. He folded his hands in his lap a little primly and gave a brief chuckle.

"We were simple folk—musicians, scholars. War came—and we were caught up in it, like so many!" he sighed, shaking his head. "My mother I remember but little; I know her name, and I have a small picture of her that was painted by a talented limner—but that is all, for she was killed when Hollin fell. My father was a musician who taught me all he knew—but when Naneth died, he lost his muse to the Halls of Mandos, for she was his inspiration. Not long after we came to Imladris, he too died of the fading. I was but a youngster—not much older than you are now, Estel-Aragorn!—and was taken into the House of Elrond for my raising to be completed."

He raised his eyes to gaze out the doors on the other side of the hall, toward the bare winter trees of the slumbering garden. Spring was only just barely beginning to make inroads, and though the day was warm in the weak sunlight, there was little of green to be seen beyond those doors and windows. Lindir smiled sadly.

"I never wanted to be anything but a maker of music," he said quietly. Smiling over at Estel, he shrugged with one shoulder. "I was never much of a warrior, you see. I can handle a sword well enough to defend myself, and Glorfindel makes certain I keep the skill sharp. I am as good an archer as the next Elf, so long as it is not young Legolas of the Greenwood who stands beside me. But my weapons are words and notes, the string I know best, that which is found on a harp. I have been happy here, watching the years turn 'round, watching your ancestors come and go—it has been a good life."

"Have you known a lot of my ancestors?" Estel asked, his expression diffident enough, but his eyes avid. Poised as he was on the threshold of manhood—of age both for Elves and Men, but still so young in so many ways—he was desperate to know these strange forebears better. "I paid attention to all of Adar's lessons, and those of Master Erestor—but it is one thing to learn of them, and another thing entirely to speak of them as they really were, not just what can be gotten from books!"

Lindir chuckled. "Oh yes, I knew all of them that have lived here over the years since I arrived," he said agreeably, nodding. His face blossomed into a blush again at the very thought of one particular ancestor, and for a long moment he was lost to sweet memory. Estel poked him in the knee.

"What are you thinking about?" he demanded. "You have the oddest look in your eyes!"

"I am remembering Arassuil, son of Arahad the Second," Lindir told him dutifully, smiling a little to see the eagerness grow. He half-turned and took Estel's face in his long-fingered hands. "You remind me of him—you always have," he said. "Even when you were but a babe, you had a look on you that made me think of him."

"Tell me!" Estel pleaded. "What was he like? Were you friends?"

"Friends—and more than friends," Lindir admitted, a little surprised himself that it caused him no pain any longer to think on it. "Had his life not been so busy, we might have been lovers—but it was not to be. The Orcs became quite bold during the years when he was Chief of the Dúnedain—why, they even attacked the Shire, though the little ones drove them off in a manner most brave. Then after that the Long Winter came, and we saw but little of Arassuil; when he returned he brought us his son, your father's name-father, Arathorn the First."

"I know all that," Estel grumbled a bit. "I want to know what he was like! Why were your friends, and what led you to almost be more?"

"Sometime I will tell you," Lindir promised in a whisper, "but not now. I must try and find my muse—for there is music wanted for tomorrow's feast, and I fear I haven't the first thing written down. Time is a-wasting, too, as the musicians need to practice!"

The very thought, plus the unsettling nearness of the young Human, was enough to jolt Lindir out of the past and into the very real, pressing responsibilities of the present. Suddenly looking rather harried, he started to jump up—when Estel took him by the hand and pulled him back down.

"Of course you cannot find your muse—for you have been sitting here like a statue," he said, the calm decisiveness returning with an almost Wood-Elf-like suddenness. "I think you need to come with me!" He hauled the minstrel to his feet and pulled him toward the door.

"What of the Twins?"

"They know how to walk by themselves. Really, Lindir! They're older than me!" Estel's grin was positively puckish.

"Where are we going?" Lindir protested. "I have work to do!"

"Of course you do—and I'm helping you!" Estel dragged him outside and chivvied him until Lindir found himself taking a walk with the youngster—will he or nil he, and with Estel still holding him by the hand, too. "Do you remember when I took lessons with you?" he asked unnecessarily, certain that anyone who could remember Arassuil and the Long Winter could recall a few years ago. "I—miss that. Whyever did we stop?"

Lindir smiled sadly. "I suspect it had something to do with all those archery and sword-fighting lessons you required to be able to do what you're leaving to do—take up your place as Chief of the Dúnedain," he murmured, suddenly missing the eager young lad who had once briefly been his student.

"I haven't stopped, you know," Estel said, glancing sidelong at the minstrel. At Lindir's interrogative murmur, he shrugged and looked away. "I have a pennywhistle I bought once when the Twins took me to Bree. I—play it from time to time."

"I know." Lindir gave him a scapegrace little grin. "I have heard you."

"You have?"

He pointed to his ears. "Hello… Elf…"

"Oh. Oh! Right!" Estel had the grace to look embarrassed. "Of course you have. I hope it wasn't an insult to those ears…" He trailed off, staring at those ears avidly, and Lindir could not help but blush at the thoughts that went through his mind.

_He is too young,_ the minstrel chided himself. But then: _No wait, of course he is not—he is a Man grown now… not too young at all…. _

"Of course it was not," Lindir hastened to assure him, squeezing his hand. "After all, it was I who taught you to play!" He smiled, thinking of the farewell gift he had obtained for Estel—which, if he were fortunate, he could contrive somehow to give him in private, so as to not occasion embarrassment for the young Man. But before he could think of some way to break free and fetch the item, he was halted by Estel, who tugged on his arm.

"Listen!" he exclaimed, half-raising his free hand. "What is that lovely sound?"

Lindir listened, but all he heard was the wind—and a wind chime, tinkling in the breeze. It was a light, sweet, enchanting sort of sound, one of the many ambient bits of daily music that could be heard all over Imladris if one simply took the time to listen. He glanced about, caught sight of the chime hanging from the corner of the stable—whence they had wandered by now—and pointed it out.

"There—it is a wind chime!" he said. "And it has been there for years—strange that you never noted it until now!"

"Yes—strange indeed," Estel murmured wonderingly, but he was staring not at the wind chime, but at Lindir himself, as if some revelation had just come to him. Lindir licked his lips nervously.

"I-is anything the matter, Estel?"

"I do not think so," the young Man said softly, leaning slightly forward. Lindir half-closed his eyes, fearing and desiring what he suspected might be about to happen—but just then a voice intruded:

"Lord Estel! Master Lindir! What a pleasant surprise! I was just coming up to the House to look for you, young one…" It was Calendil, the stable master, and he had Estel's gelding Rhandir by his halter. Lindir jumped back as if bitten, releasing Estel's hand; Estel himself looked not so much embarrassed as annoyed, though he managed a polite smile.

"Good day to you, Calendil—is aught amiss with Rhandir?" he asked, a trifle growly for all that. The stable master looked taken aback, but soldiered on as was his wont.

"Nothing that a good run would not cure—for he is, like his name, in need of the coming journey to help work the winter kinks out of him," Calendil announced, glancing back and forth between them a bit anxiously. "I was rather hoping you might be disposed to taking him for a ride—all my lads and lasses are otherwise occupied, or I would ask one of them to do it."

Lindir managed to not look crestfallen by too much. He knew Estel adored horses and would cheerfully spend every free moment in their company; surely now he would disappear on Rhandir, and Lindir would be free to return, still muse-less, to the House to try and complete his task before tomorrow. He was therefore somewhat surprised when Estel exclaimed:

"Capital idea! Is there another in need of a good ride? Master Lindir will come with me!" And in response to Lindir's astonished expression, he added: "We must find his muse, you see, for it has gone missing!"

Calendil snorted. "There are always horses in need of a good ride around here," he said, "though I am not certain where exactly you might find a muse. Nevertheless, let me get your mare, Master Lindir—won't be but a moment! Lord Estel, would you like someone to—"

"No, no, I'll do it myself." Grinning, Estel took his mount in hand and led Rhandir toward the tack room, disappearing within to come back out moments later with a saddle, pad, and the bitless bridle used on Elven-raised horses by those inclined toward the use of tack at all. Seeing Lindir's dubious expression, Estel chuckled. "Oh, it'll be fun—and I'm sure we can find your muse somewhere! If I can live here all these years and never notice a wind chime, I'm sure we can find some lovely spot wherein hides a lost muse!"

Protests were in vain, so Lindir surrendered to the inevitable. "Calendil, are any of your assistants on their way up to the house for anything just now?" he called out. The stable-master came out with a red roan mare, Helediriel, who had agreed some years past to be Lindir's equine companion. She was already tacked up in Calendil's usual efficient manner.

"Certainly—let me just get one of the youngsters," he said, handing Helediriel's lead to Lindir. Moments later, a scrub-faced young Elf presented herself to Lindir with a bow. Aware of Estel's eyes upon his every move, the minstrel leaned down to whisper in the _elleth's_ ear; she nodded, then ran off silently and speedily toward the House.

"What are you up to, I wonder?" Estel asked, tightening the girth on Rhandir's saddle. Lindir grinned at him.

"If you can have your plots, I can have my secrets," he said loftily. "You will know soon enough."

In due course the _elleth_ returned. She carried two good-sized knapsacks, one of which she handed to Lindir with a whisper; the other she affixed to the saddle of Estel's gelding.

"It's a picnic lunch and a blanket, my lord," she told the Human, seeing his questioning look. Estel glanced at Lindir, then smirked.

"I see…"

Lindir shrugged and took some care to strap the other knapsack onto his mount's saddle, as this one contained his travel harp—and one other item, wrapped carefully in soft fabric to protect both it and the instrument with which it traveled so clandestinely—his gift to Estel for his journey.

"If you can drag me away from my work," he said with righteous humour, "I have every right to strike back and bring along the means to at least attempt to do my duty to my lord. And we needn't be hungry while hunting this muse I seem to have lost… for I am reminded by a grumbling belly of the fact that I seem to have forgotten meals over the last day or so!"

"Do tell," Estel snorted with a fond grin.

In short order they were off; as they rode past, Estel gave the wind chime a friendly flick of a finger, setting it to a musical protest at the comparatively rough handling.

"Strange not to have noticed it before," he murmured, with a significant glance at Lindir. "The wind caresses all the time, the sun shines upon it and it makes its music for all to hear—and yet, year after year, I have not known, have not realized…"

Lindir looked away, his eyes huge in the afternoon dimness. He was astonished at the spike of pain that shot through him at the implication of Estel's words. _Could it be… was it even possible? Could he have the same feelings, now newly awakened?_

They rode for a while in companionable silence, each of them occasionally commenting on this or that as they traveled aimlessly. Once they reached the upper meadow Estel gave Rhandir his head and let the gelding run; Lindir gave chase on Helediriel, and they all had a glorious tear across the open grassland, winter-browned but still beautiful and untamed. Lindir was taken aback to realize how long it had been since he had left the civilized confines of the Last Homely House and just been out to experience the wild beauty of Imladris. It seemed unbearably sad that he should discover this afresh in the company of the one person he would have liked to roam with—just when that person was about to leave…

_As they all do eventually,_ he thought sadly, pondering the arrival and departure of many a Dúnadan before this one. _Am I such a fool to have such a fondness for one so ephemeral?_

They came to a panting, happy halt at the far edge of the meadow, gazing at each other with the sheer joy of life and living, sense and sensation. Then seeming apropos of nothing, Estel announced, "I am hungry! Let us find a place to have our picnic!"

Shaking his head and laughing, Lindir gestured off to one side. "The brook is very nearby—the one that turns to such a lovely rivulet of a waterfall in back of the bridge rocks," he said. "That would not only give us fresh water to enjoy with our meal, but provide a soothing sound as well!"

"To feed a muse?" Estel teased. Lindir lifted an eyebrow at him.

"Among other things—perhaps yes!"

They made their way to the brook with some anticipation. It was a beautiful place; one Lindir had visited far too many times to number. He did not question the wisdom of the Valar, that their mad romp across the meadow should lead to here. After all, many had been the times when he had been able to relax and make music by this very brook—why should this time be any different?

_Because he is here, and suspects my affections for him—and because he is leaving soon,_ Lindir thought with a spike of pain. _Now everything will change…._

As there was no help for it though, Lindir threw himself into the salvation of work. They dismounted; while Estel prepared a small fire pit, Lindir cleared the ground and settled the blanket atop an expanse of moss very near the brook. He retrieved the luncheon knapsack and set out the food: a large container of strawberries, a sealed bottle of cream; bread, cold meats, cheeses, a bottle of wine, and various condiments such as herbs, salt, sugar and pepper. There were a few napkins and some cutlery, and a couple of metal goblets—far less likely to break on rampages across meadows. Or whatever. By the time Estel had his fire going, Lindir was done with his work as well, and they settled in to eat.

"Will you sing, Lindir?" Estel asked after they had satisfied the first throes of hunger. He stretched himself out on the blanket and turned on his side, resting his head in one hand to prop up and watch. Lindir cocked an eyebrow at him.

"Why yes—and how fortunate I thought to bring a harp!" he said drolly.

Estel grinned lazily as the minstrel carefully unpacked his beloved little instrument. "Elves," he intoned, holding up a finger as he called out each item. "Elves, food, nature… music. I could probably talk you into dancing, too, with very little effort."

He was surprised, somewhat, though pleased as well, when Lindir blushed softly and bent his head over the harp, pretending to tune it.

"Yes—dancing," the minstrel repeated. "I daresay you could, at that…"

Certain he had missed an innuendo somewhere, Estel wracked his brains for its definition—and blushed rather becomingly himself. Lindir was merciful though, and chose that moment to run his long, strong fingers over the perfectly pitched harp strings. For the next little while, one of Ennor's most accomplished musicians played and sang for an appreciative audience of one. And because he did love Estel, Lindir gave him the gift of his long memory as well as his voice: he sang of the young Man's ancestors, of their history and their habits, making it up on the fly, as it were. Occasional glances at Estel's face showed the success of the endeavor, for he was absolutely rapt with interest, his eyes flashing.

_For this he was born,_ Lindir thought. _To carry on this heritage, this burden, this bloodline… for this he was born. I dare not even consider keeping him from it!_ And so he played, giving his heart along with the words and the music… if it had to be as brothers or dear friends, then so be it. Lindir had walked this sad but gallant path before with the almosts and the never-weres of his time with Arassuil—and he would walk it again, if need be, for Estel's sake….

Lost in his own genius, Lindir did not notice that Estel had moved to sit up beside him at some point. When the music came to a halt on its own, as such things will perforce do, the minstrel glanced to where he had expected Estel to be, to gauge his feelings—and found the spot empty. A soft, deep voice spoke in his ear:

"That was glorious, dear Lindir—and I would venture to suggest you have found your muse again," Estel whispered, very close to the Elf's sensitive ear. Lindir jumped in surprise, startling like a colt.

"Oh—I—umm—I'm glad you liked it!" he stammered.

"I did, very much," the young Man replied, nodding seriously, his eyes kindling. Lindir bit the inside of his lip to keep himself under control.

"I—have something for you," he said, and all but pushed the harp into Estel's hands, a barrier and a salvation from any possible foolishness. Estel could not but take the instrument, and looked somewhat frustrated as he watched Lindir root around in the harp case for something. After a moment, the minstrel held out a velvet bag, about the size of a child's pencil case. "This is for you—I had it made so you don't lose your own music," he said, with an ironic lift of one eyebrow. "Take it! And don't forget to take it with you, when you go."

Estel took it, a bit surprised that it was much heavier than it looked; they indulged in a brief, slightly comical touch-and-go routine as Estel tried to hand back the harp without dropping the gift, but eventually Lindir had taken his instrument back and Estel was prying open the little bag. When he tipped it, a box slid into his hand: slightly less than a foot long, and of Elven make, which is to say exquisite.

It was made of hand-riven blue slate, just thick enough to protect whatever the contents might be, and yet not so thick as to be unreasonably heavy. Whoever had knapped it was a master of the craft, for though the marks could be seen where the slate had been split, it was all so perfectly done that only one who had practiced such an art for centuries could have done it. Incised on all surfaces but the bottom were Elven designs reminiscent of Imladris, architectural details that Estel could recognize from one part of the House or another. His name in Sindarin Tengwar was cut into the lid: Estel.

"It is lovely, Lindir, thank you!" he said sincerely, for the box was a little masterpiece of work. "But—Estel? Not Aragorn?"

"I thought long as to which it should be," Lindir replied gently, placing one hand atop Estel's there on the corner of the box. "You go out into the world to be Aragorn, but for Men and Elves alike you have always been what Elrond named you: Estel, the hope of us all. I would have you remember that—not for burden's sake, but for the lesson it carries. Hope is a powerful thing, _pen-neth_. Never lose it. And if you do—gaze on this, and remember."

Estel stared at him, tears gathering in the wide grey eyes. "I will," he whispered. "I will."

Lindir blinked slowly, gravely. "See that you do." Then he grinned. "Of course, you _could_ open it and see the gift within the gift, child…."

"There's more?" Estel eyed the box closely, eager. "How does it open?"

Lindir showed him how the top slid out one end like a slate bookmark of sorts, revealing a velvet-covered interior of padding and whatnot. He encouraged Estel to draw back the flap of fabric that covered whatever lay within—and was gratified to hear the sharp intake of breath, the exhaled "Oh, Lindir!" that greeted his actual gift.

It was a small, perfect mithril flute of the transverse sort favoured by the Elves since Lindir himself had invented it several hundred years ago. It could be broken down into sections that neatly fit together to make an instrument just the right size for Estel's hands, if he practiced at it. Lindir put away his harp and demonstrated the right technique for fitting the pieces of the flute to one another, how to turn them just so; then he made Estel play it a time or two, simple little tunes. Of course he showed him how to take it apart again, and directed that every so often it was to be greased with a pure wax and lard compound to keep it from snagging on itself—and of course it would need to be dried out so the saliva that inevitably collected within did not ruin the metal…

"This way," Lindir said, as Estel packed the little flute away once more and ran his fingers over the carving on the slate box, "you will not lose your own music while you are wandering in the wild."

He supposed he was not so terribly surprised when he found Estel's hands softly running over his own chin—and the young Man fitted his lips over Lindir's in what began as a gentle kiss of thanks….

"Estel—" he whispered, his lips still lightly touching the other's.

"Shhh," the Man commanded, his eyes still so dreadfully young and anxious and dear, so close to Lindir's. He nuzzled softly with his nose at the finely drawn line of Lindir's cheek, and closed his eyes to savour the scent of the Elf. "Please—let me…"

He did not finish his request, but carefully set the little box aside without looking, and gentled the minstrel into his arms with a simplicity and grace that many a more accomplished lover might have envied. Lindir surrendered to the desired inevitable, twining his arms about the neck of the Man, pressing their bodies together there on the blanket with a soft moan of acquiescence.

"This can never be, Estel," he said softly, tears leaking from his eyes.

"I know," Estel replied. "Hush… if once is all we have, then let it be so, but let it be perfect."

Somehow clothing went away; somehow there were strawberries and sweetened cream, somehow there were soft kisses growing in urgency, and somehow… somehow there was grace and desire all wrapped into one inspiration of sorrowful joy. Lindir threw himself into the task of performing this one symphony of perfection, smiling happily through his tears as he kissed and nibbled his way down the strong body of the Man, reveling in the differences between their physiques. If it could only be this once, it would be his master work.

Lindir ran his tongue in a playful dance around the youth's navel; he alternated licks and kisses with tickling strokes on the organ that jutted proudly forth from Estel's loins, worked his way by mouth around the narrow hip and composing melodies over his young lover with lavish attention, humming as he did so, running fingers over the taut instrument that was the firm flesh beside him, beneath him….

For his part, Estel discovered a music that ran through his own being. Lindir was not his first lover, for there had been other admirers, and one most fortunate Elf who had had the joy of teaching him—but Lindir was the first master of music to play him so, to coax from him the sobbing, soft desperation like a cello in heat, the high keening wail of a stoked and stroked viol… the first to pluck at his strings with such abandon. And when Lindir encouraged Estel to sheathe himself in the best possible way, he became the first to help the Man find his voice to such a high potential, singing for the release and joy of it all to the watching sky and the sheltering trees….

In the glowing aftermath, Lindir cradled the sobbing youth and added his own tears, making the cleansing of their bodies a sacrificial rite of love in the growing dusk as his talented hands gentled the Man down from his aria and tended him as one might tend a king, making all good again and helping to clothe him in his garments before the thoughtful ride home, both sharing a single mount to prolong the moments of closeness.

"I never knew you could sing so, Estel," he whispered into the Man's ear as they rode at last into the stable yard of the Last Homely House, well after dark. He did not need to see the blush to know it was there…

A passing breeze chose to caress the yard as they untacked their mounts and rubbed the horses down before putting them into their stalls for the night. Lindir turned from hazily happy contemplation of the young Man, to stare wide-eyed as the sound of the wind-chime came to them from outside. _Lost music found… Estel… hope…_ He turned and seized the Man, kissing him fervently, almost desperately.

"I must go. I will see you tomorrow. Estel—I—thank you. For so many things, thank you—I do love you. I… must go!"

And then, he was gone. Estel stood there in silence for a long time afterwards, pondering all that had happened; for a long time he simply lounged in the stable doorway, leaning against the doorpost and smiling toward the house, until finally he went inside, smelling of horse and love and music, to find his way to the bathing chamber….

So likewise we will through the world be rung,  
And with my name shall thine be always sung.

Ovid, translated by Marlowe

**Epilogue**

Minuial had hardly taken hold the morning after the feast when some of the Rangers of the North gathered in Elrond's stable yard under the eye of their quondam captain Halbarad, kinsman of Aragorn, the new Chieftain of the Dúnedain. With them were Elladan and Elrohir, sons of the Lord of Imladris, who would journey with them for a time. Elrond had said his farewells to them all the night before, as it had long since been his custom not to watch his sons depart on their adventures—a father's superstition, if you will, in a family for which superstition was a way of life and a heritage. It seemed there were no others there to see them off, save Glorfindel, who had made it his duty to be there, and Erestor, who pretended he had to make certain Glorfindel did not weep and worry—as some kind of loving cover for his own sorrow that yet another young Man was coming into his own on this lovely morning in the waning of winter.

Estel—nay, Aragorn—moved among the Rangers he had come to know over the last few years, speaking with them quietly in the soft chill of the early day, his sharp eyes picking out details and noting the smallest thing, filing it all away in his memory, for he knew this was a moment he would remember all his days: the moment when his road diverged from every other place it had gone since his birth, sending him toward everything that would happen from now on. Ever and anon, when he thought none were looking, he scanned the House quickly, hoping… always hoping. But no silver-and-gold-haired Elven minstrel came to see him off… at length he decided he would have to be content with memory and gift, and ran a hand lovingly over the blue slate box tucked into the belt pouch in which he kept those things he wished to have near to hand as they departed this morn.

The music Lindir had created for the feast, in an astonishing whirlwind of activity that was the polar opposite of his previous lassitude, had been incredible. Many had said he had outdone even his own estimable self. Somehow in a few short hours he had written like a god, set secretaries to copying his work, then set his staff of musicians to practicing—and by dinner time had produced a lengthy but riveting piece of musical perfection concerning the ancestry of Aragorn son of Arathorn, in honour of his setting-forth. Much of it Aragorn recognized as having been born there on the banks of the brook in the meadow, when Lindir had sung for him alone—but there was a constant thrumming undercurrent to the music that he could not quite place, a pentatonic sweetness crisp and clean and recurring, a theme if you will… the notes were stuck now in his head, and it would be a long time before he would even want to remove them.

When the time came, he hugged Erestor, clasped forearms with Glorfindel, glanced toward the House—and kissed his childhood farewell with a salute to his fingertips, flung to the rafters of Elrond's refuge in the valley. The Rangers mounted up, and with Aragorn, the Twins and Halbarad at their head, the group rode out into the gathering dawn. As they approached the bridge to leave the immediate confines of the House, however, Elladan and Elrohir glanced up, startled, and paused to look back.

"What is it?" Aragorn asked.

"Can you not hear it?" Elladan murmured. He and his brother had both seen the soft looks passed between Aragorn and the minstrel the previous evening, and had seen them disappear together late into the night. They had not necessarily been looking for anything to occur this morning, but in the silence of the morning, before the birds had even begun to salute the rising day-star, somewhere in Imladris there was music.

Aragorn tilted his head back toward the House and listened. Over the jingle of horse tack and the softness of the chill morning breeze there came the tinkling sound of a single silver flute. Woven into the tune being played were those same haunting pentatonic notes, in a dancing, lilting, merry undercurrent—and Aragorn began to laugh. It was the sound of the wind-chime, the very wind-chime he had never noticed before, just as he had never noticed Lindir's love for him, a love pure enough to express itself to him so sweetly and then give him the freedom to fly away on the morning breeze, sung out of the realm by the gift of a song.

When they reached the crest of the last high turn before they left the valley completely, Aragorn turned his horse for one look back. Spread out before him was the stage on which his protected childhood had been played—including a stunning vision of the Last Homely House and the Bruinen belting past below. There on the roof of the main building of the manse, just visible to mortal eye and far more clearly to Elven ones, sat a doll-like figure in the distance: clad in robes of white, the colour of celebration, stark against the blue slate of Elrond's roofline, Lindir the master minstrel played his heart out to the winds of morning, singing of hope and weaving the thread that would help bring a son of the House home again someday to those who loved him.

As Anor crested the hilltops and bathed Imladris in the dawn, Aragorn turned his horse again and rode the music toward his destiny.

**The End**

**A/N:** The rules of the game were these: you could request a fic, but you had to write one as well. Seven of us participated as givers and receivers this year… we may do it again sometime! Here's what the constraints were: You specified a pairing, stated whether slash was acceptable or not, and what ratings you would like. Then you could state a desire for: things you didn't want included (Orcs, perhaps, or busted canoes?) , concepts you most assuredly DID want included, words or phrases you wanted to have show up, items that should appear somewhere in the tale, and any special extra notes (happy ending, no character death, etc.).

Ellen's requests were for Lindir and Aragorn, slash, and any rating; NO clumsy or dirty Human clichés, no non-con, and no "weepy Lindir" syndrome. She asked that Lindir be a secret admirer of the young King-in-waiting, and that something of Lindir's past history be explicated. Words or phrases to include were wind chimes, blue slate, and "Can you not hear it?" Included Items were to be horses, a harp, a flute, and a brook. Her specific request was for angst to be a feature of the story, and for Aragorn to be depicted as confident and young, just about to head off on his own to try and learn more about himself and his destiny in the world.

I leave it as an exercise to the reader, as to whether I have succeeded in this endeavor. I hope the occasional tear from our Minstrel does not make him weepy, but I suspect she was kicking against the frequent depiction of Lindir as a rather wishy-washy, weak character—not against a heartfelt musician occasionally letting a little drop wend its way down his cheek… Thanks for the chance to stretch myself, Ellen! I would never have thought of these two, but for this request—and they just ran off with my Muses!

**Jasta**


End file.
